figured. Anyway, he introduced himself to the group and got to know Aunt Sophie. A week or two later, he took Sophie and a couple of her friends on another outing to the track. Then, he began to visit Sophie at Sunshine Meadows on a fairly regular basis.
“Sophie never said a word about any of this to me. I found out from the Sunshine Meadows director, who told me one day how pleased she was that Sophie had made a new, younger friend. Jesus! And it didn’t take long before Oily Ronnie got around to asking Sophie how she’d like to be partners in a racehorse. Why, it was her ‘lifelong dream,’ she told him.
“Well, did Ronnie have a deal for her!” Tom had concluded.
After Matt and Tom had settled on her couch, and Aunt Sophie had brought out cookies and tea, Tom said, “Auntie, tell my friend Matt about how you got into the horse business.”
Sophie blushed with pleasure. “Oh,” she said, “it all started with this nice man I met at Heartland Downs, the racetrack, on one of our Seniors Trips from here. He looks just like that old actor Victor Mature. Very handsome. And he’s as sweet as he can be,” she added, leaning forward to carefully refill the teacups.
Mr. Schrapps, Aunt Sophie continued, was nice enough to even let some of her good friends in on the horse deal. “I put in $40,000,” she said, “and he let Marjorie Gainer and Dorcus Rohmer get in with $25,000 apiece—even though a lot of other people wanted to join and were on the list before them, Mr. Schrapps said. They were just thrilled.”
Matt said, “Exactly how did Mr. Schrapps say this partnership works?”
“Well,” Sophie replied, “he said he likes to keep our syndicate kind of hush hush. He works behind the scenes in the horse business. That way he gets better horses and better prices,” she said with a wink.
Sophie passed the plate of cookies. “You put your money in,” she went on, “and you get to be in a group that owns several horses. When the horse wins, you get a dividend. Mr. Schrapps guarantees a return of ten per cent every month! None of my old CDs can do that!
“And, just between us,” Sophie whispered, “Mr. Schrapps says we might have next year’s Triple Crown winner in our stable already!”
Matt groaned softly as Tom said, “Auntie, please show Matt the papers on the horses you own now.”
She proudly proffered them. Matt looked at a faded copy of an official registration form for a thoroughbred racehorse, one issued by the sport’s ruling body, The Jockey Club. The original horse’s name had been crudely whited out. In its place was written the name of Birdstone, that year’s Belmont and Travers Stakes winner. Other, similar papers bore the names of other currently famous American racehorses.
Sophie reached into the file and took out a money order for $4,000. “That’s my payment from Mr. Schrapps,” she said, “for our first month. It was a little late coming, a few weeks even I think, but that’s because he had a little trouble buying one of our horses. But all the monthly payments will be right on time from now on,” she smiled. “Mr. Schrapps promised that.”
Matt turned to Tom. “This is pitiful,” he said quietly, so that Sophie couldn’t hear him. “It’s got Ponzi scheme written all over it.” Matt riffled through the papers again. Nowhere did Oily Ronnie’s name appear. Nor was there any written contract covering the purported partnership. Just the phony registration papers, and copies of several newspaper and magazine articles heralding the joys of horse ownership.
When Sophie went into her tiny kitchen to get more tea, Tom said angrily, “Auntie and her friends all made out their checks for the partnership to cash. With nothing in writing, Ronnie can deny any involvement. All he’s got to say is, ‘These crazy old people are accusing me of what? Prove it.’”
Sophie returned and passed the cookie plate again. “What were you saying, Tommy?”
Tom reached over
“Sophie never said a word about any of this to me. I found out from the Sunshine Meadows director, who told me one day how pleased she was that Sophie had made a new, younger friend. Jesus! And it didn’t take long before Oily Ronnie got around to asking Sophie how she’d like to be partners in a racehorse. Why, it was her ‘lifelong dream,’ she told him.
“Well, did Ronnie have a deal for her!” Tom had concluded.
After Matt and Tom had settled on her couch, and Aunt Sophie had brought out cookies and tea, Tom said, “Auntie, tell my friend Matt about how you got into the horse business.”
Sophie blushed with pleasure. “Oh,” she said, “it all started with this nice man I met at Heartland Downs, the racetrack, on one of our Seniors Trips from here. He looks just like that old actor Victor Mature. Very handsome. And he’s as sweet as he can be,” she added, leaning forward to carefully refill the teacups.
Mr. Schrapps, Aunt Sophie continued, was nice enough to even let some of her good friends in on the horse deal. “I put in $40,000,” she said, “and he let Marjorie Gainer and Dorcus Rohmer get in with $25,000 apiece—even though a lot of other people wanted to join and were on the list before them, Mr. Schrapps said. They were just thrilled.”
Matt said, “Exactly how did Mr. Schrapps say this partnership works?”
“Well,” Sophie replied, “he said he likes to keep our syndicate kind of hush hush. He works behind the scenes in the horse business. That way he gets better horses and better prices,” she said with a wink.
Sophie passed the plate of cookies. “You put your money in,” she went on, “and you get to be in a group that owns several horses. When the horse wins, you get a dividend. Mr. Schrapps guarantees a return of ten per cent every month! None of my old CDs can do that!
“And, just between us,” Sophie whispered, “Mr. Schrapps says we might have next year’s Triple Crown winner in our stable already!”
Matt groaned softly as Tom said, “Auntie, please show Matt the papers on the horses you own now.”
She proudly proffered them. Matt looked at a faded copy of an official registration form for a thoroughbred racehorse, one issued by the sport’s ruling body, The Jockey Club. The original horse’s name had been crudely whited out. In its place was written the name of Birdstone, that year’s Belmont and Travers Stakes winner. Other, similar papers bore the names of other currently famous American racehorses.
Sophie reached into the file and took out a money order for $4,000. “That’s my payment from Mr. Schrapps,” she said, “for our first month. It was a little late coming, a few weeks even I think, but that’s because he had a little trouble buying one of our horses. But all the monthly payments will be right on time from now on,” she smiled. “Mr. Schrapps promised that.”
Matt turned to Tom. “This is pitiful,” he said quietly, so that Sophie couldn’t hear him. “It’s got Ponzi scheme written all over it.” Matt riffled through the papers again. Nowhere did Oily Ronnie’s name appear. Nor was there any written contract covering the purported partnership. Just the phony registration papers, and copies of several newspaper and magazine articles heralding the joys of horse ownership.
When Sophie went into her tiny kitchen to get more tea, Tom said angrily, “Auntie and her friends all made out their checks for the partnership to cash. With nothing in writing, Ronnie can deny any involvement. All he’s got to say is, ‘These crazy old people are accusing me of what? Prove it.’”
Sophie returned and passed the cookie plate again. “What were you saying, Tommy?”
Tom reached over
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